Peace
by femalegamer
Summary: Elissa Cousland reflects on the past and the future on the occasion of her wedding. Post game, so obviously there are spoilers.


This is, loosely speaking, a follow up to Lying Dogs. Except that Lying Dogs is a light-hearted bachelor party fic. This… is not. When I realized how little they fit together, I took out any hooks, so I suppose it's only really a sequel in my own brain.

I attempted to write something that was not first person and hit a block, so this is my second attempt. While I wanted something with some bite, I feel like this is a little _too_ angsty, but what can you do?

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My mother should be here. She should be fussing over my hair and complaining that I keep it too short. She should be fluffing my dress and wondering if we should have gone with blue, if I'm too pale for a pastel. My brother's wife would keep trying to give me inappropriate Antivan advice, by my mother's standards.

My nephew would try to get into the room, only to be stopped by my father, or his. He would be swept up into the air and tickled half to… death.

I suddenly have no heart for these imaginings. It is my wedding day. My brother, the only family I have in the world, will "give me away". He's already teased me about the idea that anyone has ever owned me or ever will. Both of us had tears dancing behind our eyes.

History will not remember us that way: Elissa Cousland, who lost nearly everything, and Alistair Therrin, who had nearly nothing to lose. No, we'll be the Heroes of Ferelden, and will no doubt attract other sobriquets. Maric the Savior, Moira the Rebel Queen, Calenhad the Great. Alistair the Silly.

Wynne and Leliana try to play the roles, but are wary about stepping in too far. Wynne tries more for grandmotherly. I think. I never knew my grandmothers; few of their generation lived long enough to know grandchildren, what with the war with Orlais, and the rebellion after it. Leliana tries to be the sister I never had and I try to pretend. She gave me the inappropriate advice last night, when it was just the two of us giggling over goblets of spiced wine. It's just as well; without the wine, I don't doubt I would have tossed and turned last night.

If I had a sister, she would undoubtedly be dead as well.

I've been so terribly morbid, since the archdemon. I have nightmares about Morrigan's child. Sometimes the child is born of my flesh, instead. Sometimes I bear a darkspawn baby that kills me. Sometimes it doesn't wait until it has been born and instead chews its way out.

I dream of Riordan or Duncan or both lecturing me about being unwilling to make the sacrifice.

Of course, they don't understand, it wasn't myself I was unwilling to sacrifice, it was him. I didn't fear death, I feared life with a hole in my chest where I should have a heart. What kind of leader would I be for the grey wardens of Ferelden with my soul lying in a hero's grave? What kind of leader would he be if I had died?

Both together, or neither.

Morbid.

We've been apart for too much in the past month or so, awkwardly welcoming foreign grey wardens and foreign dignitaries coming for the wedding. I think that every noble in Ferelden is in Denerim, never mind the common people hoping for a glimpse. It wouldn't do for one of these guests to see Alistair slipping out of my rooms or vice versa, when we aren't busy, so we've reverted to a frustratingly chaste state. After even more giggling, Leliana implied it would give spice to the wedding night. And then Wynne reminded me that too much alcohol has detrimental effects on male performance. It doesn't matter how often she makes comments like that, it still causes coughing fits and spluttered responses.

I carefully temper my stories to the various servants and hirelings working on my appearance. They say they want to know what it's like to be the Hero of Ferelden, but they don't want to know the truth. They don't want to hear about the Broodmother, or killing peasants trying to collect a bounty so they can eat, or heretical dragon worshippers. I also toss the ball to Leliana, since she's the real storyteller. The stories she tells are true, but somehow cleaner, **better** than they were in reality. I don't remember sounding that heroic.

This should be the happiest day of my life, and all I can think about is what I've lost to get here. I've given up counting all of the people who've died, how many people I've killed.

I'm saved from my morbid thoughts again, this time by Fergus. I've been carefully assembled into a fluffy confection with very little resemblance to who I really am. This elicits complements from all and sundry about how beautiful I look. Fortunately, I'm about to marry the man who also thought I was beautiful covered in a quart of darkspawn blood and wearing half-armor.

My brother understands part of my problems today. I'm not sure if he's making it better or worse, though. He's wearing a tunic in father's favorite colors, the Cousland laurel embroidered on the breast. He holds me close, and there's that moment where it turns into comfort, not just congratulations, not just me "leaving" the family for another.

I couldn't stop crying when I found out he was alive.

With that, Wynne hugs me and leaves to be seated. Leliana will attend on me; I never had many female friends growing up, between playing warrior woman in training and the scarcity of noblewomen my age. In another world, Delilah Howe could have been an attendant, given our families friendship. I force myself to unclench my fists after earning a sharp glance from my brother. I remind myself that there is no proof that either she or her brother had anything to do with the arl's plot.

Leliana is immensely pleased that she will carry a bouquet of Andraste's Grace, with other delicately colored flowers. My memory is one thing no one has ever faulted, not even my tutors, though they found plenty of other faults.

The fanfare begins. Apparently this one was composed in my honor – I'm not sure as Queen-consort or as hero, but they've learned enough about me that it's properly loud and bold, not some insipid little nothing.

Thinking about the music keeps me from thinking about the fact that my father should be taking my arm, not my brother. His velvet covered arm is warm, like he's been standing in the sunlight. He kisses me on the cheek before we enter.

Everything fades away around me. All I see if Alistair standing at the front, his face shining, like his soul is too big for his body and is peeking through his skin. He reaches over to briefly clasp Eamon's arm, as if to assure himself the world is real and not a dream.

I realize that today, there is no past of sorrow and loss. There is no future threatened by an evil we helped create.

There is only today and this man and this love, and I am at peace.


End file.
